


Unlocker

by VoidVesper



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alien Biology, Alien Sex, Alpha Kylo Ren, Ben Solo Needs A Hug, Ben Solo is a Mess, Dominant Kylo Ren, F/M, Female Anatomy, Force Bondage, Force Choking (Star Wars), Inappropriate Use of the Force, Kylo Ren Has Issues, Kylo Ren Redemption, Kylo Ren is Not Nice, Kylo Ren is a Mess, Murder Kink, Necrophilia, Omorashi, Other, POV Kylo Ren, Perversion, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sadism, Scat, Squick, Squirting, Top Kylo Ren, Torture, Uncircumcised Penis, Urination, Vaginal Fingering, Watersports, You Have Been Warned, Young Ben Solo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:46:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23589376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VoidVesper/pseuds/VoidVesper
Summary: Today the captive woman in the interrogation chair is human. Good.She doesn’t know it, but inside his helmet Kylo Ren is looking directly into her wide and tear-wet eyes as he pulls the glove off his right hand. The Force opens her mouth, hinges the top of her head back, ready to swallow. She hyperventilates in double time.“No biting,” he says in that dark and distorted synthetic voice as his two fingers touch gag-deep into her throat. He draws them out in no hurry. She feels the whorls of every fingerprint on the twitching carpet of her tongue.He rolls the wet forefingers against his thumb with the lazy care of a man flexing his fist. Now they’re all slick with her saliva.Now they’re on her.** Takes place in the immediate weeks before TFA **
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Original Female Character(s), Kylo Ren/Reader
Comments: 8
Kudos: 43





	Unlocker

Today the captive woman in the interrogation chair is human. Good.

She doesn’t know it, but inside his helmet Kylo Ren is looking directly into her wide and tear-wet eyes as he pulls the glove off his right hand. The Force opens her mouth, hinges the top of her head back, ready to swallow. She hyperventilates in double time.

“No biting,” he says in that dark and distorted synthetic voice as his two fingers touch gag-deep into her throat. He draws them out in no hurry. She feels the whorls of every fingerprint on the twitching carpet of her tongue. 

He rolls the wet forefingers against his thumb with the lazy care of a man flexing his fist. Now they’re all slick with her saliva.

Now they’re all on her clit.

She hisses and stiffens but there’s nowhere for her to go. What the chair’s restraints can’t hold the Force takes care of. Bobbing against its field is a sensation like forcing a ball under salt water. He’s gently rolling and tugging the most delicate part of her between his thumb and slick fingers, fingers she’s culpable in making slick. She doesn’t know what he’s capable of.

In her terror she wets herself.

The  _ chuff-chuff-chuff _ of a distorted chuckle from behind the mask as the mortifying trickle strikes tiny spattering chimes against the floor.

“Two can play at that game,” he growls. 

She feels that same firm rictor thread through the subtle muscles behind her eyes. They force her gaze forward and her eyelids open as his two hands – one gloved, one naked – unwrap multiple layers of woolen black with ritual concern. The gloved hand pulls down the high waist of his trousers. The naked hand grips his cock. It’s big even in his fist and purple with want.

Like a doctor readying a shot he spurts a quick splash of urine into the air. Just because he can. Just because he wants to see it, and see her reaction. He strokes his cock. The head is unbearably taut with blood as it crowns in and out of the silky cowl of his foreskin. He can feel her pulse race and it only makes his own metronome pulse in his erection thrum more. 

He leans into her, close enough to smell the panic in her breath. He pisses a healthy stream of urine against the tender folds sheathing her clit. She sucks in her breath and stiffens in horror. He loves this sensation. He loves the deep stimulation of a stream of urine rushing through his erection-constricted urethra, the very perverse tickle of watching his cock’s issue splash against the helpless folds of her now drenched cunt. He can feel her strong emotions: revulsion, terror, a shameful flash of pleasure. What is that? Oh yes. A memory floating to the surface. A teenage discovery of how a stream of warm water on a very eager clit is a virgin’s finest lover.

“You never told that to anyone, did you?” he murmurs in that subterranean baritone. She doesn’t answer. Of course she doesn’t. He’s got her vocal chords in his grip, too.

Fear and disgust laced with delight. That’s the brew that unlocks them, softens them up for anything – questioning, exploitation, termination. You can bury wounds forever into the softest parts of their soul with that mix. That’s how it worked the first time.

In the rubble of the Jedi Temple he found the first girl he’d ever loved. Another virgin padawan. She was sprightly and wise and Force-gifted. She was rapturous to his hungry teenage eyes. She was broken by rocks when he found her, flung far from the lightning and carnage and flames that he’d somehow rained down upon all he’d known in this world. In death she’d voided her bowels and bladder. In his naivete he thought this was another mystery of women’s bodies. When he pulled the garment down from her rigid shoulders her naked breasts were the first he’d ever seen.

_ The nobility of celibacy. _ Bullshit. The Jedi were anti-sex. And he hated the Jedi. His first radical act of refusal of their Order was to consummate this crush, post-mortem. His first orgasm not in dreams was buried deep in the shit-stained genitals of her rapidly cooling corpse. 

He wanted to know. Their bodies were sutras, his atrocities upon them manifestos of liberation written in semen and blood. Every raid harvested hostages of no military importance. He plucked females of all alien races from his battlegrounds with the dispassionate curiosity of a botanist pressing flowers.

That state of revulsed ecstasy. He would know it, unlock it, in every female.

Rodians had two perpendicular genital slits flanking a bone-ridged cloaca. The slits were lined with downy needle spines and were too small for more than his pinky. Tusken women gave away no moisture to the arid world through mucus membranes. Their genitals were a tight, rough seal, a perpetual hymen meant to be punctured by their mate’s bone spear-tipped erections. He believed they were resigned to violence, incapable of pleasure, until he learned to slather the flat of his tongue over their crotch’s sharkskin surface until they urinated an intensely salty froth through its pores. Bone-ridged Zabrak labia snapped shut under conscious control. He almost lost a knuckle. He choked her out, pulverized those razor parentheses in cruel twisting fingers and took what he wanted anyway.

He had a Wookiee once. She was fetid and pathetic and it felt like incest. He killed her quickly.

Twi’lek were the closest to human. Their figure 8 pundenda was ringed with small clitoral studs, and even if their forked vagina branched into two canals he could get a third of himself in, to no small pleasure. Sometimes it seemed he was learning more about the males of every species from these female explorations. What Twi’lek cock needed the puckering of hundreds of raised divots against the vaginal walls to be persuaded to spill its payload? To him the sensation went from intriguing to numbingly, fizzingly annoying in a matter of minutes. Their cunts had no ridges and striations to nudge seductively against the head of his penis, no plush cervix to jounce pleasantly against, no meat velvet grip to sink into. He saw how each of these attractions mirrored his own anatomy – and in turn, understood his own map of pleasure.

That map guides his fingers now. He knows the obverse of his formidable girth is the way it stretches against the eager pink inner gully his crooked knuckle is now nudging up and down inside. “Where is the Resistance base?” his modulated voice whispers in her ear. The sweet drag of his foreskin and the ridge cresting his glans exist to stroke the furrows of the hard spongy spot nestled just inside her. His fingers slip inside her with succulent ease and find that spot. Yes, she likes that. She hates and fears the way she might piss again and she can barely stand how intense his expert probing is and she doesn’t want it to stop. He spent hours researching the crevices of that dead girl’s flesh. He knows what he finds when he finds it.

His captive’s cunt is drooling with arousal. His fingers slosh in and out of her. He feels her vocal chords straining to move against his Force pressure, wanting to purge something deep and animal out of her in low guttural roars. He won’t let her. The juice runs down to the hard bones of his wrist. She is tipping into another zone, one she didn’t know she had, one he knows with the arrogance of experience that every woman has. He doesn’t spare her. His savagely jabbing fingers move in and out of her at a cruel pace until their brutality unchokes a spasming, spurting torrent of slick liquid that anoints his entire hand. He feels her shame again at spurting in front of him like an incontinent slut, feels awestruck ecstasy at what she now knows her body can do. That mix will destroy her.

He releases her vocal chords. She can’t talk anyway. He feels the words trying to solidify in a mind awash in endorphins and existential crisis. He savors her delirium and reaches for the switch behind his ears. His mask unlatches with a crisp hydraulic report. He wants his mouth on her. She tastes like musk and salt and metal. Her clit is tender on his tongue. Her mind is on fire. To think this was ever regarded as lowly, unbecoming of a man. Put your mere tongue on a thumbprint of space and watch a woman fall to pieces under you. That’s real power.

“I’ll never tell you,” she finally gathers herself, through tears, through euphoria, through shame that will break her for the rest of her short life.

It’s irrelevant. He’s already seen the truths that slipped out of her secrets once he made her gush. He’s got what he came for.

Except one thing.

He stands up and presses his body against her. His hips bully more space for him between her convulsing thighs. She clenches them in near rigor mortis when she feels the heat of his cock notched right in the web where one push would send it into her. He gives it that one small push, just to break the seal, feel the kiss of her unctuous interior, to let her realize her body’s willingness to swallow his cock whether she likes it or not.

He’s got one last trick of anatomic precision.

The Force reaches not into her mind, but her brain. Arteries crush. Her head lolls and eyes go doll-blank. 

She breathes, and her heart beats, but all else of her is dead.

As he begins to pump he knows he does not want it like this because his first time primed him for it. That could have been her warm flesh against his teenage body, her grateful eyes, her small hands clasped hard on his back as she shuddered beneath him. The jolts of arousal are accumulating in him with each thrust, swirling through his pelvis, gathering weight and speed and erotic momentum. If he’d had the courage to step away from that temple, that Order, all that which did not serve him, he would not be broken by that noxious cocktail of fear and revulsion and pleasure, too.

Impending orgasm softens him, opens the yearning in his heart. He does not want any of his victims to see this. The chasm of his heartbreak is too much for him to bear. 

He makes a desperate wish on the climax that tightens his balls and stiffens his cock and unleashes the seawater of grief into his eyes. 

_ If the time came again,  _

_ someone I loved, insensate in my arms . . .  _

_ that time would be different. _


End file.
